Page 11 of Irish Vice
He dusts his hands after rolling the last suitcase to the foot of my bed. “Where there’s an unlimited bank account, there’s a way.”
I frown. I don’t want any more debt on my account with Braiden. But I say to Fairfax, “I know this was supposed to be your day off. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“My pleasure,” he says, with such a sincere tone I almost believe him.
After he leaves, I unpack. I’m astonished by Fairfax’s thoroughness. He tracked down every item of clothing I had in the closet I shared with Braiden. He sorted the master bathroom, bringing my cosmetics and my bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I blush when I realize he emptied my nightstand as well, rounding up my nail file and cuticle scissors, a notepad and pen, and a half-full bottle of lube.
He wasn’t just busy packing. He’s laid in a supply of my favorite snacks—wheat crackers and dark chocolate Kisses and a bowl of tart little apples. He stocked the shelves with liquor too—all high-end bottles, with glasses to match. There’s a small bowl filled with lemons, limes, and oranges.
It’s nearly seven o’clock when I shove the suitcases into the storage closet, next to pool noodles and kickboards and a mind-numbing array of inflatables. I lower my new window shades against the twilight.
When I was a single woman living in my Delaware condo, I was rarely home at this time of day. I worked long hours at the freeport, poring over legal documents until nearly midnight. When I finally made it home, I changed out of my black suit and got ready for bed.
But Braiden made me sell my condo. And by Braiden’s house rules here at Thornfield, I’m not allowed to work past six. After hours, I’m required to set aside my plain clothes. I must wear one of my floral skirts.
Braiden is a liar. He tricked me into marrying him. He made a fool out of me.
But three months of living as a Kelly has changed me forever. It feels wrong to wear my skinny black jeans at the end of the day.
Refusing to think about how thoroughly Braiden’s gotten under my skin, I turn to my wardrobe. I swap my black cashmere sweater for a soft pink shell. I shimmy out of my jeans and select the brightest skirt I own, a riot of roses in amethyst and magenta and a heart-stopping fuchsia.
I hesitate once the waistband settles over my hips. Braiden demands I wear my skirts without panties. The house rules have been drilled into me so thoroughly that it feels wrong to be fully clothed.
Closing my eyes, I touch my forehead to the armoire. I don’t want to be this woman, bound by a man’s rules. I don’t want to be so weak. So controlled.
But the thing about my underwear, the reason for the rule: No one else in the house knew about it. It was our secret, Braiden’s and mine. I did it for him, and he knew it, and that gavemea certain power.
I reach beneath my skirt and hook my fingers into the elastic waistband of my panties. Before I can pull them off, though, there’s a knock at the pool house door.
I startle as if I’ve been caught doing something nasty, like masturbating in the middle of a train station. The elastic snaps back to my belly in punishment, and my heart pogo-sticks my sternum.
It must be Braiden out there. He’s come to survey his handiwork—this retreat that he ordered up in less than a day. He’ll tempt me as he always does, with a knowing look and a wicked grin.
But I’m ready for him. I’m not giving in without another conversation, and another, and another, until he does what’s right for Birte and Aiofe. I set my jaw against the commands he’s bound to issue. I close my ears to the special voice he uses, the tone that runs a direct line to every screaming cell in my body.
Before I open the door, I remind myself that I’m a strong and independent woman. I’m a member of the Delaware bar—at least for now, until the ethics office decides if That Night will cost me my law license. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll build myself another profession. I can do anything, once I’ve set my mind to it.
I turn the knob and raise my chin to meet my fate.
Madden Kelly looms in the doorway.
Madden is tall like his brother, and he’s got Braiden’s wide shoulders. But where Braiden’s eyes sparkle like matching star sapphires, Madden’s have the sheen of day-old coffee. Braiden’s hair is so black it’s almost blue, but Madden’s is the matte brown of a scarred oak trunk.
“What do you want?” Madden’s the one who told Braiden I was working for Russo. Sure, he was duped by the Mafia don, and he was only trying to protect his brother. But Madden’s mistakes sent me fleeing Thornfield for five long weeks, and I haven’t forgiven him yet.
“Is that any way to greet your kin?” He pushes his way past me like we’re old friends.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now.” I watch him survey my new home. His eyes sweep like a stopwatch, tallying up the changes. I remind him: “You’re no kin to me. You never were.”
Madden slinks across the room like a cruising coyote. Pausing by the rack of pool cues, he picks up a cube of green chalk and rubs his thumb over the surface. “Ach,” he says, sounding more Irish than Braiden ever has. “You’ve learned the truth about poor Father Brennan.”
“Youknew.” I’m unable to keep bitterness from my voice. Madden was Braiden’s best man. And when Russo launched an attack on our wedding day, Madden was the man Braiden trusted to rush me into Thornfield’s safe room.
He’s gloating now. “Of course I knew.”
“And the rest of Braiden’s men? Have you all been having a good laugh behind my back?”
Madden smirks. “Not because the priest who married youwas false. But more than one lad has commented on the boss stinking like fish these past few months.”